In My Brother's Shadow
by theturtlemoves
Summary: Regulus Black considers his big brother, and why he no longer wants to be just like him. ONESHOT please review.


_I'm back, but not with the fic I intended to post for Christmas – that will come later, I promise. For now, here's my favourite Slytherin. I'd love to hear what you guys think._

_Reggie, Sirius and other characters etc belong to JKR. I merely borrow from the library of her creation._

**In My Brother's Shadow**

I'm not him.

Not that anyone would ever accuse me of it.

There are similarities, of course, as there always are between siblings. The family resemblance is striking – genes in our family have been reinforced through generations of marrying cousins, so there's not much room for variation. Personality is where the source of our difference lies, but even there we are sometimes alike. There is the pride, the streak of arrogance, the predilection for thinking ourselves above others. Some traditions are so engrained into the family that they're almost handed down in the genes as well – no matter how he might think he has changed himself, my brother still carries with him the classic Black traits which were bred into him since infancy, as do I.

There are similarities. As children, we thought never to be parted. That house was our world, our entire universe. The lessons we learned from our parents were the dogma by which we lived our lives. But my brother, a true Black, has always had trouble with authority. He has always had trouble with rules. And so, he rebelled. The initial rebellion is lost to me, but it must have been some time before he left for Hogwarts. Before he was sorted a Gryffindor, he had already questioned them. He had already stood up to them.

The Sorting Hat does not sort people where they do not want to go. Therefore he must have wanted Gryffindor, he must have wanted to rebel. He must have had a reason, although he never told me. From that moment on, my brother didn't stop to tell me much at all. But he must have had a reason.

Here we come to the first of the differences between us, the most obvious. He is the brave one. Reckless, yes, and sometimes downright stupid, but brave nonetheless. I am the more contemplative – I tend to over-think things. But he is always the one to take action. He never thinks things through, but by Merlin does he act. There is a point to which I can admire that about him, until I am reminded of what it has cost him. Up until a point, I respect him for his bravery. It is one of the few qualities that my brother possesses which does him any credit.

When I was young, I wanted to be him. He was everything I thought was great and worth following. He was fearless. _Fearless_ – ha! I remember how I used to worship him. I used to hate it when mother yelled at him. I used to amuse myself by listing all the ways in which he was my favourite person in the whole world. And when he would take me into his confidence – sweet Merlin; that was the greatest gift he could give me! He trusted me. In all our games he was the hero, and I was the loyal sidekick.

Hmm, now that I think on that, it's rather ironic that he should turn out James Potter's sidekick, and I …

Well. We shall see.

After he went to Hogwarts, after he began his long road to rebellion, our games ceased. If he wanted to play at all, I would be nothing more than a target. I was young, and I realised late that this was not my fault – to him, I represented nothing more than the family he had come to regard with disdain. He no longer wanted me for a brother; he had his new friends for that.

I am not like him. I am not as much a Black as he is. I do not have the same problem with authority. I was sorted into Slytherin – at the time I thought it was because of my family, but as I grew older I discovered in myself more of the attributes of the house. I have the ambition. I have, surprisingly, the cunning. My brother lacks cunning. He is the hex-first-ask-questions-later type. He travels through life without ambition or goal – unless you count pissing off as many people as possible. If he could do nothing more with his life but ride his motorbike (yes, I have seen it – it suits his reckless nature) and hang out with his friends, I think he would be happy. But that life would make me restless.

I am Slytherin house through and through – as much as anyone ever 'belongs' to a house. I was a prefect. I was Head Boy. Not that anyone noticed. They were too busy worrying about my dear brother and his stupid, careless friends to think about quiet, studious, careful me.

He has always been one to hold the limelight.

At Hogwarts, he didn't acknowledge me except to curse me in the corridor. My being put into Slytherin was probably the last straw for him. You cannot imagine my dismay at having let him down. He was my only brother, my best friend and my hero, and suddenly he wanted nothing to do with me. It was not until much later I realised that he had let me down as much as I had him. It was a long time before I realised that I would never be – would never _want_ to be like him.

My whole life, I have tried to do what was expected of me. I never found it as difficult as he did. There are those who have said that I am what a Black should be – aristocratic, mindful of tradition, ambitious – these are the qualities praised in our family. We pride ourselves on them. We instil them into our children. But we kid ourselves – we are not like that. Bellatrix, the epitome of the perfect pureblood woman, is not like that. She is reckless, she is easily angered; she is all fire and passion and spite. She and my brother are so similar it's uncanny. They are the true Blacks. I have never had their passion. I will never have their conviction.

I am no Black.

Even now, miles away from my mother and the old homestead, after everything that has happened to make me write those words, it still feels traitorous. I am a traitor, I suppose. My brother would never consider himself a traitor – his loyalties no longer lie with his blood. Yet I know that in fact, he is more a Black than I am, he always has been and always will be. Even now, he is still a true Black. I was not a Black even when I was conforming to every expectation that came with being the sole heir.

'Sole heir'. That's rich. I am merely a shadow of a Black when compared to him. An empty silhouette that conforms to the proper shape on first glance, but is in fact an insubstantial echo of the real thing.

He ran away in the summer after my third year; just before he was due to begin his sixth. That caused the biggest scandal in our family since Andromeda had married a muggle-born, and I was too young to remember much of that. Perhaps it might not have been such a big deal, but he was the family heir after all, the first-born son. Since that day I have not been encouraged to speak of him at all, let alone as my brother. But I could never forget about him completely. I could never renounce him as my brother … to an extent he was still my hero, and my best friend. He always will be, in a way. I no longer want to be him, but I cannot shake the memories of our shared childhood so easily.

It was just before he ran away, the last time I spoke to him. I remember every word. I remember the way he sat – no, _lounged_, with that charismatic over-confidence of his – on his bed, his lip curled in a sneer as I entered the room. Mother had just finished a tirade about how he was an ungrateful brat. It was becoming a daily exercise on her part. I thought to bring him some food, since he had stormed out of breakfast without eating anything.

I'll never forget the look he gave me. As though I was insulting him, instead of doing him a service. I suppose I had grown tired of his general attitude by this point, so I put the tray down and made to leave without a word.

'You disgust me,' he muttered as I left. It was enough to make me turn. The lack of gratitude, coupled with a feeling that he would happily curse me at this point without a second thought, was enough to make my anger rise.

Ah, the Black temper. One trait I can confidently say that I _do_ possess, no matter what anyone else might tell you.

'You're a great git, do you know that?' I'll admit that it wasn't one of my more eloquent turns of phrase, but it got the point across.

He scowled.

'You're the one soaking up all their ridiculous opinions,' he snapped. 'Can't think for yourself, that's your problem. You make me sick.'

I gritted my teeth.

'I can think for myself perfectly well, for your information,' I muttered. 'Right now I think you're being a complete prat just like your buddy Potter; how's that for thinking for myself?'

He laughed – a different laugh to when we were boys; a short, sharp laugh that made him sound like a dog barking. I couldn't remember when he had started laughing like that. It was a contemptuous sound, a derisive noise that caused my blood to boil.

'You're just repeating _her_,' he said mockingly. 'You don't have a single original thought inside your head.' He surveyed me for a second, before adding: 'Don't talk about James like that, either. Not if you want to be able to sit down for the next week.'

He was fingering his wand. I reached for my own, concealed in the pocket of my robes.

'It's true, he is a prat,' I said bravely, knowing that my brother could easily live up to any threat he cared to make.

He got to his feet.

'Leave him out of it, I said,' he growled menacingly. 'If you know what's good for you, you won't talk about my friends like that. James is more of a brother to me than you'll _ever_ be, all right? So don't you talk about him. You don't know _anything_ about James Potter.'

I stared at him. Years of training in Slytherin had taught me to conceal my emotions – I never let on how much his comment had hurt me.

'What's so great about Potter, anyway?' I wanted to know.

'Don't bother, Reg,' he said in patronising tones. 'You wouldn't understand.'

I glared at him as he settled back onto the bed. It occurred to me that my brother, brave as he was, would be willing to forsake us all for the life of his friend. That James Potter meant more to him than we ever would, just as he had said. In a flash of insight I knew that this path would lead him to ruin. I could see it. He and James were too reckless, too thoughtless – who would talk my brother down, point out the flaws in his schemes? Who would keep him in check if not me? James Potter could not do it. No one who did not understand the nature of a true Black could do it.

But my brother, I knew, would not consider all this. He wasn't like me. And for the first time I knew that it was not me, but him who did not understand.

'I'm not you,' I said quietly, as the realisation came to me. He raised an eyebrow.

'Good one there, Reg. Real clever of you to figure that one out. Tell me; was it your lack of charisma or your utter stupidity that gave it away?'

I scowled at him.

'You're the only idiot I see here,' I told him fiercely. He appeared unimpressed.

'The mirror's on the wardrobe, Reg.'

I took a few steps into the room, so that I was standing over him.

'I never want to be like you,' I told him. 'You're too reckless even to realise what you're doing. You think you're clever, but really you're just making more and more enemies for yourself and one day, those enemies are going to catch up with you and no one will be able to help you.'

'I don't need anyone's help,' he informed me in icy tones.

It was the last thing he said to me. The hex that accompanied it stung for weeks, but the pain that ensued from our less than amiable parting carries with me to this day. I suppose it was inevitable. Despite the fact that it cost me the support of my only brother, I stand by what I said. Few know as I do – least of all my brother – exactly what kind of enemies he has accumulated since leaving the family. He has enemies in places he has never even heard of. The only thing that keeps his vain hopes intact is his blinding ignorance to the sheer scope of the problem.

After he ran away, it fell to me to 'uphold the family honour' – or what was left of it at any rate. Hm. I sound like him when I say things like that. Those little sarcastic asides were always a popular form of attack with him. He thought he was so _clever_. He still does, or so I'm told. Meanwhile, I was Head Boy. Yes indeed; it probably comes as a surprise, but it's true. No one noticed, of course, except in passing comments before moving on to more important matters. But I was. Quietly, I completed my NEWTS and got better marks than my brother could ever have dreamed of.

My father died not long before the end of my seventh year, just after I turned eighteen. That was three months ago. My mother had long since retreated into the madness which had claimed her at the disappearance of her eldest son, and she barely noticed the death of her husband. I was the only one left to mourn him, since his failure with the family heir had brought him into disrepute with our relatives. This more than anything, I think, has brought me to look more closely at my own life.

The war grows ever more dominant for all of us. And I, caught between two sides, am in the last place I ought to be. On one side, my family, my mother, my heritage and a man who promises to make the world anew if we offer him our service. On the other, a beloved brother and what I am continually realising to be the more humanitarian effort.

When I found … this gift, this miracle … that would ultimately be the difference between one side and the other, I was faced with the choice. I see now that the outcome of the war rests in my hands. This is what I was speaking of before. This time, I have the chance to be a hero.

It's not a game this time.

I am not a Black.

I am not a Death Eater.

I refuse to be a coward.

I am not my brother.

And after this, no one will ever accuse me of any of the above offences.

This one's for you, Sirius.


End file.
